


American Dream

by Soupernabturel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: American Gods Inspired, Angst, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bottom Castiel, Bottoming from the Top, Come Eating, Dean Works in an Office, Depression, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Dean Winchester/Other, Infidelity, M/M, Really bad Russian translations, Russian Castiel, Taxi Driver Castiel, Unhappy Castiel, Unhappy Dean, Unsafe Sex, Views and opinions expressed about Russia and Russian people are not endorsed by me, and hates his life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:52:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4245030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soupernabturel/pseuds/Soupernabturel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean frowned at the unfamiliar words as Castiel drew near. “I don’t know what that means.”</p><p>“Quiet. Byt' lyubimoy.” whispered Castiel, dropping his towel, he pushed Dean gently onto the bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	American Dream

Mr Adler hated Dean Smith. It was the only explanation for sending him here. Russia, with its cold iron gray days and chilled darker nights. Dean’s shirt and jacket felt too thin here, barely providing any warmth (even though he had been assured by Mr Adler that this would be the warm season.)

 

It was as though the entire country had conspired against him to make Dean feel as uncomfortable as possible.

 

The people, Russian people, felt no requisite to smile, not even at small children- hell even the fucking children were stern, and really Dean just felt like an idiot, speaking (butchering) their language, his smile shaking and wobbly on his face as he tried to maintain a sense of professionalism.

 

Dean had been in the country for a week, and felt worn down to a pencil nub. As acting manager of _Sandover Inc._ with a (promised, five years promised) future up the company ladder Dean was sent over to Russia, a country of cold weather and even colder people, to ‘strengthen company ties’ and ‘attend to urgent matters with our international partners’. Which plainly put, consisted of Dean day in and day out, navigating the foreign city, phrase book and suit case clutched protectively to his chest sitting in on meetings with people who barely acknowledged him, speaking in a language that sounded as though someone had chucked rocks into a blender.

 

It had been a week of hell, of long hours and phone calls, an Odysseus trek each day back to his hotel only to have even longer phone calls and paper work. The demands of the job were pressing, weighing on Dean more with each and every night no matter how many times he told himself, alone in his hotel room, that this was only temporary.

 

He’d been saying the same assurance for the better part of a decade.

 

The first day Dean had gotten lost, confused by the foreign landscape and signage, and since had vowed to only travel by Taxi, abandoning the company car in the hopes of someone taking the responsibility of getting him from A to B.

 

But of course, the cab’s weren’t without their own detriment.

 

After another horrendous day in which no deals were made and no progress was made Dean stumbled onto the side of the road, cheeks numb, every inch of his exposed skin so intensely cold it felt as if he had been struck.

 

Adler was not going to be pleased with Dean’s report. The Russian’s were stubborn, Dean could hear the words echoed time and time again in his head, that delegations of a company takeover (or expansion as Adler liked to call it) were tremulous, delicate. They needed to be nurtured.

 

‘And you’re the perfect man to do it.’ He’d declared, with a slap to Dean’s back and not so much as a ‘see ya’ casting Dean off to the frozen shut butt hole of the world.

 

Dean wasn’t quite sure how he should have taken the slight, not only to his intelligence but his masculinity (nurturer? He was no fucking mother Hen) but he’d done as he’d always done, toed the company line with a smile and acted so grateful for getting the opportunity to lick not only Adler’s boots, but the boots of Putin’s fuck buddies.

 

Dean was not a swearing man, but more and more he found himself hardening like the stone walls encasing him. He was always so cold.

 

His stay here may have even been bearable, if only it was warmer (and Adler died of a sudden heart attack, cutting all of Deans ties to the god forsaken company that was slowly draining his life blood).

 

Holding onto the lapels of his coat with one hand Dean stepped onto the edge of the sidewalk and waved a cab down.

 

It took three tries for one to stop.

 

The yellow taxi cab’s wheel dived into a sloppy pothole, splashing dirty water up onto Dean’s leg. He swore vehemently, the briefest thought of throwing himself before one of the passing car’s seemed like a favourable prospect.

 

But the cab was idling, waiting for him. Ungracefully Dean clamoured inside, sinking into the rat bitten back seat, the warmth was a double edged sword filling the small space with the lingering smell of vomit and patchouli.

 

Dean peered through the plexiglass barrier smudged with what he hoped was just finger smears and was met with an unruly mop of dark brown hair. He thought the man had angular features, unshaven with olive tanned skin, but with him looking resolutely, almost statue like out the window it was hard to tell.

 

“ _Zdrávstvujte_ ,” _Hello_ , Dean said sitting back in his seat.

 

The driver pulled out from the curb, uttering a quiet yet deep “ _Privét_.” _Hello_.

 

“ _Mne nuzhno do, umm, Artel Hotel_?” Dean managed.

 

The taxi driver gave a curt nod, but said nothing. Traffic buzzed around them to a gray backdrop, the cab’s wipers sullying the street scene into a blur of gray and wet lights.

 

From nowhere another cab pulled in front of them the taxi driver swore, braking a moment. “ _O_ _tva`li, mu`dak!_ _Fuckshitfuckfuck!”_

 

Dean blinked. He leant forward slightly trying to catch the man’s ID on the dashboard. “ _Vy govoríte po-anglíjski_?” he asked. _Do you speak English?_

 

“ _Dah. Znatʼ odin jazyk nikogda nedostatočno_.” The driver said, catching Dean’s eye in the review mirror a moment before darting back to the road.

 

He had very blue eyes.

 

Dean ran a hand through his hair, beaded with rain, it slicked back through his fingers, dripping down the nape of his neck.

 

“ _Dah_ , that’s yes right? Yes?” he said, babbling. God he sucked at Russian. “ _Ya ne ponimaju._ _Ja iz America_. I’m. From. _America_.”

 

“America?” The driver repeated, in perfect, clear, but accented English. “You are a long way from home American.”

 

“Yeah. Thank God for that.” Dean said before remembering himself. He gave the man a nervous smile. “Did you know you’re the first person I’ve met who can speak English here? Been feeling like I’m going crazy.”

 

“No.” the driver said.

 

“No?”

 

“English is not a difficult language. Many of us can speak it.” They stopped at a red traffic light. When it turned green, it took an extra moment for the drive to move. “Perhaps, all those you’ve met before have simply chosen not to.”

 

Despite being wet, cold and miserable Dean smiled, painfully. “So you’re saying Russian’s are just assholes. Even the people I’m supposed to be working with? Awesome.”

 

“I believe all people are assholes.” said the driver soberly, “at least in some capacity.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Dean apologised. It would be a bad idea to offend the man who was responsible for getting him home in one piece. “I’ve had a really shitty day.”

 

The driver remained quiet. An invitation.

 

Dean kept quiet too. He leant back in his seat and undid his tie, curling the end around his fingers. The words he wanted to say caught against his Adams apple. It took a few swallows to work them out. “I’ve spent the last week with people who ignore me which to be honest isn’t really that different from back home. I’ve waited all day for a meeting with a man who didn’t want to see me and then only spent five minutes with me before claiming either that his sister was sick or there’s a flood in his lounge room. I’m starting to think Adler sent me out here as a joke and yet-”

 

“I had a choice. Maybe. I came here with the hope that it would be a-an escape-I don’t know. What’s really f-fucked up is that, here, on my own doing and putting up with all this shit is the best week I’ve had in fucking years.” Thrilled and horrified in equal measure once the words started they didn’t stop. “I don’t want to go back. But I have no means, no way to stay away.”

 

The cab stopped again. Rain pattered on the room. Dean wiped at his eyes and sat back in his seat, his tie twisted around his wrist, threaded in his fingers. God he was suck a fucking joke.

 

The cab crawled forward, the number on the meter increased. “On the bright side.” The driver said eventually. “That is a nice suit.”

 

Dean blushed tickled pink. He laughed; something hollow sounding but a little less so than it would have been for any other.

 

It really was a nice suit.

 

“I’m Dean by the way. Dean Smith.” Dean said, watching the drivers face in the mirror as he spoke, staring at his pink lips.

 

“Castiel.”  The driver answered.

 

“ _Castiel_?” Dean repeated, licking his own lips. “Russian?”

 

Castiel cast Dean a gummy, gloomy smile. “Of course.”

 

For a moment Dean felt caught, the cab too small. Something in his chest, within his ribs, wriggled. “Well Castiel, at least one of us is making money today.”

 

Castiel sighed. “Not much. I have been driving for thirty hours and barely have enough to pay for more gas. This afternoon I drove a woman who fled my cab without paying fucking _suka_. Then this morning a teenager vomited in the backseat.” 

 

At the disgusted look on Dean’s face Castiel gave a surprisingly light laugh. “Don’t worry. I wiped it down.” 

 

They turned onto the street where the traffic had come to a standstill.  Castiel swayed in his seat, and Dean watched concerned. His chin descended to his chest, once… twice…

 

Hesitantly Dean reached through the hole in the plexiglass, touching him on the shoulder. “Castiel Hey.”

 

Castiel made a snuffling sound then a snort, jerking awake in his seat. He mumbled something in Russian and wiped a hand over his face. But did not shrug off Dean’s hand, even as he reached into his pocket and lit up a cigarette, cracking the window.

 

Dean could feel soft flesh, hard muscle through the wool of Castiel’s sweater, the fabric of his coat.

 

Slowly, as the traffic moved minutely, the cab filled up with arid- distinctly _not_ tobacco smoke.

 

“Should you really be doing that while driving?” Dean asked, placing his hand back in his lap.

 

“I’ve been in this cab for thirty hours Dean.” Castiel said, voice gravelly. Lips curling around the joint. “I deserve a break.”

 

They were silent for a moment or two. The traffic began to gain momentum.

 

“Do you partake?” Castiel asked holding the joint in the hole of the divider. Another invitation.

 

It took everything in Dean not to cough. “No- ah, no, I don’t.”

 

Castiel arched a solitary eyebrow in the mirror. Puff puff inhale. Smoke danced around his head gracefully, his eyes like blue lanterns shrouded.  “You look as though you need it Dean.”

 

Dean’s name sounded nice, comforting, spoke by the other man’s lips. He said Dean’s name like a base line, flat and deep, as though there was nothing steadier to build his words upon.

 

“I’ve never. I _don’t_ smoke.”

 

Silent, Castiel shrugged and lifted the joint to his lips. One hand on the wheel. Dean felt his heart beating in his chest, in his ears, it did not have so much to do with Castiel’s reckless driving as it did with something entirely more fearful.

 

“America. Your country. Much hotter, crowded, easy to disappear and beautiful.” Castiel smiled to himself, beautifully. Dean felt his breath catch. He didn’t consider America beautiful parts maybe, the people, assholes.

 

“Your bees are very nice.”

 

“Bees?”

 

They turned a corner. Castiel nodded. “The fat, fuzzy ones.”

 

“Bumble bees.” Dean smiled shyly when Castiel slapped the steering wheel and zeroed that smile on him, turning his head to look at Dean over his shoulder.

 

“Yes. I like them.”

 

“You’ve been to America then?” Dean asked.

 

“A long time ago. Too long.” Castiel said quietly. “There was a time, I intended to make my way in your country.”

 

Dean reached again and touched Castiel’s shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. “What happened?”

 

“Life. Death.” Castiel laughed without humour, shallow and empty with his head pressed back against the seat. “And all of the little things in the middle.”

 

Very gently Dean touched the side of Castiel’s neck, fingers skirting bare skin. He was warm. So warm. 

 

Castiel’s eyes flickered in the mirror and met Dean’s, closing briefly he squeezed them shut.  “ _Vy ochen' privlekatel'ny_ Dean.” He said. The cab turned a corner.

  
There was a heaviness to Castiel’s words, too heavy for a man who had something to go home to after all this, someone to go home to Dean would bet. Though Dean didn’t understand them, loneliness, sorrow was universal in every language. “Are you happy Cas?”

 

“I have my cab. I am content.” Castiel answered, a little steel slipping into his tone. “I was to be without a home at one time. But I became this. A driver, a job that would get me the crust of a bread loaf. I’m fortunate.”

 

“I guess that’s all a man needs in the end,” Dean murmured, looking at the side of his drivers face. “That didn’t answer my question.”

 

Castiel cocked his head, tilting it down so the line of his stubbled jaw, his cheek rested against the back of Dean’s hand. The rasp of the sensation made Dean gulp. “Come. You must be wanting to get home.”

 

 _Yes._ Dean thought, swallowing the answer. _Yes. No. I’m not sure._

 

Home was hard to think about when Dean considered himself never really having one.

 

The rest of the drive was made in silence. When they reached Dean’s hotel, Dean passed Castiel through a twenty, what he assumed was a twenty, then with a sudden burst of courage he ducked his head back within the cab and said “Do you want to-”

 

“Yes.” Castiel answered, stubbing out his joint. He turned the key, silencing the cab. Dean smiled, the first real smile since he came here, perhaps since he’d graduated college with a degree in business and a thirst for life that had dried up long ago. The two of them walked in silence into the hotel. Castiel instantly at odds. The hotel was not fancy by any means (Sandover would never splurge for anything but the bare minimum) but Castiel looked so ill placed. A large heavy rain coat draped over his shoulders, beneath a gray sweater riddled with holes and fraying edges. His combat boots were worn and scuffed, Dean felt dressed to the nines in comparison.

 

The woman at the service desk paid them no mind. Dean was thankful for that made this so much easier. They stood awkwardly beside each other in the elevator, looking about as similar as water and oil, travelling up to the fifth floor.

 

Dean had the urge to reach out and touch the other man, hold his hand, run his fingers over his lower back, but he couldn’t inspire the energy to force his muscles to engage the thought. Instead they stood closer than strictly necessary, Castiel hummed under his breath.

 

Dean’s room was dimly lit when they entered, immaculately clean, his belongings barely unpacked a single suitcase in the corner of the room by the bed. Castiel’s eyes scanned the space, blue rimmed, then fixated on Dean with a kind of lucidity Dean hadn’t figured the man in his drug addled state capable of.

 

When Dean asked if he was thirsty (very much in need of a drink, something strong and stiff himself) Castiel just smiled, then asked to use the bathroom.

 

“I feel very dirty.” He said, hands stuffed into his pockets, he stood almost self-consciously in the room, touching nothing but what he absolutely had to. The air and the floor.

 

Sheepishness did not suit him. Dean indicated to the bathroom, removing then carefully placing his jacket on the back of a nearby chair.

 

“Shower’s in the other room.” he said not failing to notice the way Cas’ attention focused on first his collared shirt, his suspenders, then the belted waistline of his slacks. “There’s ah- a towel you can use on the rack.”

 

“Thank you.” Castiel said, and shuffled out of sight.

 

Dean sat on his bed, listening to the running water of the shower in the other room. He listened for a long time. After too long a time, Dean began to remove (and fold) his clothes. Suspenders fell off his shoulders. He unbuttoned his shirt and considered his slacks, before undoing them, kicking them off only to fold and place them, his shirt, and undershirt along with his jacket. He walked to the kitchen in boxers and socks, let himself have two shots of whiskey, smoothing down his harsher edges, before he thought better of it and removed his socks too less meticulously than the rest of his clothes. He shoved them into his shoes, and made his way back toward the bed.

 

Dean was just placing his wedding ring on the bedside cabinet when Adler’s name came up on his phone, an incoming call.

 

Dean paused, finger hovering-

 

The running water shut off. Dean pressed down. Adler’s call was diverted, blocked, sent to voicemail.

 

For the first time in month…hell… _years_ Dean felt as though he could _breathe_.

 

Castiel came out of the bathroom in a plume of steam, Dean, standing by the bed, put his cell down and turned to him.

 

“You polish up nice there Cas.” he said, eyes shamelessly roving the man before him.

 

“Do I?” Castiel smiled, wet with a towel wrapped around his mid-section he stepped into the room.

 

Clean. Dean thought, as his cock started to fill, he looked very clean. And far more built than his occupation and clothing would suggest.

 

“ _Takaya_ _krasIvaya_.” Castiel said, eyes fixed on the sight of Dean standing there, palming himself through thin black fabric. There was no mistake to be had, they both knew why he came here, why Dean allowed him to. No expectation. No exception.

 

It had been awhile since Dean had fucked, or _been_ fucked by a man.

 

He frowned at the unfamiliar words as Castiel drew near. “I don’t know what that means.”

 

“Quiet. _Byt' lyubimoy_.” whispered Castiel, dropping his towel, he pushed Dean gently onto the bed. 

 

Well, Dean could appreciate the Russian’s all business attitude. 

 

Castiel tasted smoky, a long line of heat that set Dean alight. They pulled and pushed against each over, Castiel crawling atop of Dean, Dean trying to touch every spare inch of the god above him he could. Castiel pressed himself against Dean’s chest, sitting on his hips, gyrating. He licked and nipped at Dean’s chest, his nipple, and worked Dean out of his boxers. Distracted Dean fumbled with the lube in his bed side, unopened. He struggled with the cap, breathing fast, as Castiel slid down and sucked gently at the tip of his naked cock.

 

Dean grasped at the pillow above his head caught in the whirlwind of the other man, struggling to find purchase. In a rush, Castiel snatched the lube from Dean’s hand wetting his own fingers which disappeared out of sight. He spat on his other hand then unceremoniously pushed his fingers into Dean’s mouth, sitting astride him. Dean groaned around the digits licking and suckling, eyes intent on Castiel’s cock, flushed, wet, nestled in a thatch of hair Dean wanted to bury his nose in, suck delicious sounds from the man above. 

 

But it wasn’t to be not yet. Taking a hold of Dean’s cock Castiel slipped his fingers from Dean’s mouth getting Dean’s cock wet as he ground down against him. Dean was barely aware of the fingers of Castiel’s lubed hand already prepping, his spit slick fingers trailing up his own chest shamelessly. With obvious exertion, Castiel raised up on his knees and positioned Dean’s cock between his thighs, back further, spit and precome trailing wet along the skin behind his balls. 

 

A part of Dean knew that that was nowhere near enough prep, but that part was silenced by Castiel guiding him back and sinking down, without pause. 

 

Dean threw his head back in a groan. Castiel slid down him gloriously until he was seated snugly on Dean's hips. Dean dug his fingers into Castiel’s flesh his next breath a long pleasure filled hiss, eyes closed as shuddering Castiel waited a moment, two, before slowly circling his hips. Dean’s lips tingled. He squeezed Castiel's hip, and lifted his hand up reaching for the other man.

 

“C-Cas,” he breathed then moaned. The warm wet heat of Cas almost too much. He pulled on Castiel’s shoulder, breath flying out of his lung as blue eyes opened to fix firmly on him. “C’mere.” It was a little too quiet, a little too tender. 

 

Castiel slumped as though asleep, then bent over chapped lips against Dean’s. At odds with the franticness that brought them to this moment, they moved together slowly.

 

Dean wrapped Castiel in his arms, holding on desperately afraid that if he let go the other man would fly apart. Leave. Castiel to his own credit, held his weight fingers curling in the bedspread, his other hand cupping Dean’s cheek. He planted sweet little kisses along Dean’s jaw, his throat. All the while soft little grunts and choked out moans escaped him, as Dean thrust up.

 

" _Dean_. _Yebat!_ " Castiel said his kisses fierce, landing on Dean’s lips, cheeks, eyes, he rolled his hips and moaned.

 

It was liminal space, this moment. For a man who was constantly travelling from A to B, there seemed, in this bed, in this room, no destination in mind. And for Dean who didn't know whether to run and hide or stand and fight, he felt more grounded, being ridden by a stranger who felt like so much more. A tide finally coming in, a slow, steadiness that sunk into his bones.

 

They moved against and with each other for so long that Dean’s muscles had bled into a lazy kind of sleepiness. They fucked, touched, loved. The only sign of impending reality being the clenching of Castiel’s muscles, the slight uptake of his rocking back and forth. Dean knew that forever more he'd be mesmerised by the sight of Castiel fisting his own cock, grabbing a hold of Dean’s hair as a tugged and came, head tipped back, blue eyes a flame. In his euphoria he flexed around Dean, tight, hot, wet, and the world dripped away.

 

Dean followed him over the edge with a gasp and a cry, cheeks wet, heart swelling. His worship was stifled by Castiel smearing his scooped up come, wet against Dean’s mouth. Benediction. Marking.

 

Pinned by the solid weight of Castiel’s thighs Dean suckled then ate greedily.

 

Castiel sat a top of him the whole time, feeding him, basking. His voice was a soft mummer of Russian, words too low to foreign to understand. He traced Dean’s featured with a delicate reverence then lent over for a gentle kiss as with a wet sucking sound, released Dean from entrapment.

 

Dean fell against the bed, exhausted. Castiel crawled then sat to Dean's right. He reached out to palm Dean’s cock with a calloused hand, before Dean whined and mumbled for him to stop.

 

In the early light of evening, too early to be considered night, Castiel sat tenderly on the edge of the bed, silent. He left for the bathroom wiping himself down, then returned to the bedroom, passing Dean the cloth. Dean ignored it, rolling onto his side, hiding his face. 

 

“Stay?” he asked Castiel, blinking back tears.  He buried his face in his pillow, and felt ashamed for doing so. “ _P-pozhaluysta_ Castiel?” 

 

Castiel sat back down slowly. His expression softened. As though pulled and tied to marionette strings he lay back down, and after a moments hesitation where Dean sniffled, he pressed close. Dean cuddled up against him, crying silently. He hiccupped and apologised snot nosed and red rimmed but Castiel hushed him. Placed a gentle hand across Dean’s waist, resting on his belly which Dean sucked in for a moment, before remembering that this was _Cas_.  

 

“ _Dah_. _Konechno_.” Castiel said, curved around Dean, he drew him to his chest and pressed a kiss to the dip where shoulder met throat, a direct line of heat to Dean's pounding heart. “Of course, Dean. Sleep now.” 

 

With permission Dean sighed, and relaxed in strong arms holding him. Sleep came easily, in the aftermath, Dean felt weightless, boneless and comforted. 

 

It was the best sleep he had had in years. 

 

oOo

 

The next morning Dean awoke alone, the colder Russian sun crept into his room, sneaking. Also, he discovered a short time later, the majority of his belongings were gone as well; his suitcase, money, passport, and his air tickets back to America.

 

Pressed against his wedding band was a pair of keys, cab keys, an ID badge, drivers licence and taxi permit, the photos of which all did not look like Cas and funnily enough looked exactly like Dean. They each read a different name _Dean Krushnic, Dean Novak, Dean Winchester_.  Amongst the placed belongings was a note, in elegant, looped cursive scrawl and address was jotted down, signed with a heart.

 

Dean traced the heart with the pad of one thumb, feeling strangely light headed. Castiel had left his jeans, shirt, ratty sweater and coat. He had left Dean his own shoes their sizes too different for Cas to swap them. Dean was just putting on the last of Castiel’s clothes when the front desk rung informing him that ‘Mr Smith has already checked out’ and that ‘his guest needs to leave so we can service the room.’ 

 

Dreamlike, Dean dressed, gathered his small belongings, what remained and what had been given. 

 

Cas’ cab was parked right where they left it last night, the back still smelt of puke and the seating was falling apart but when Dean slipped into the front seat started the engine, turned on the radio and drove until the heating kicked in.  

 

He turned it off soon after, it was not quite as cold today as the day or even the week before.

 

Outside the sun was actually shining. 

 

 _Wi_ _nchester._ _Dean_ _Winchester_. Huh. It had a nice ring to it.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for my incredibly poor Russian.
> 
> In order:
> 
> Privét/Zdrávstvujte - Hello  
> Mne nuzhno do- I want to go to  
> Otva`li, mu`dak- Fuck off you asshole  
> Vy govoríte po-anglíjski- Do you speak english?  
> Dah- Yes  
> Znatʼ odin jazyk nikogda nedostatočno- One language is never enough  
> Ya ne ponimaju- I don't understand  
> Ja iz America- I'm from America  
> Suka- Bitch  
> Vy ochen' privlekatel'ny- You are very attractive  
> Takaya krasIvaya- You are so beautiful  
> Byt' lyubimoy- Beloved  
> Yebat- Fuck  
> Pozhaluysta- Please  
> Konechno- Of course
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](soupernabturel.tumblr.com)


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